


let's pretend the fog is lifted

by othersideofthis (hikaru)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6639910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/othersideofthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Don’t ask about Philadelphia</i> should be one of the first rules a guy learns when he meets Mike Richards, and especially <i>don’t ask about 20-fucking-10</i>, and Mike tries, Justin can tell, he’s trying so hard, but Justin sees the clench of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils when Lewie asks, “Do you miss it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's pretend the fog is lifted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragons_and_angels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragons_and_angels/gifts).



> thx to kate for the excellence
> 
> thx to justin williams for existing
> 
> title from the mountain goats, 'dilaudid'

**i.**

 

Justin’s been around the league long enough that he figures Mike’s heart really isn’t in Los Angeles the second they meet.

Mike goes through the motions of introducing himself to a new teammate—smiles, sticks out his hand, shakes. Justin keeps Mike’s hand gripped tight in his, clasps his other hand around Mike’s forearm. “You gonna help take us all the way this year?” Justin asks, holding tight to Mike.

Mike shrugs, looks down. “Me?” He almost looks like he’s ready to scuff his toe into the ground, uncharacteristically shy for what Justin had expected of him.

“Yeah, you.” Justin flashes his most charming grin, squeezes Mike’s arm. “We’re gonna do it, gonna bring a Cup here.”

Mike pulls away, extracting himself almost gently from Justin’s grasp. “I mean, that’s the goal, isn’t it?” He sticks his hands in his pockets. “Play hard, win a Cup?”

“That’s the goal,” Justin agrees. “Every year. You should come over some time for dinner, once you’re settled, alright?”

“Yeah, sure.” Mike shrugs. He keeps glancing at his watch, like he has somewhere else to be. “I’ll text you or something.”

They say their goodbyes and Mike wanders off, back to his car. Justin didn’t miss the way Mike’s hands shook, how he’d barely made eye contact with Justin. Mike spent every second in that concrete hallway looking for a reason to leave.

There’s something wrong, Justin thinks. There’s something he’s missing.

*

Justin invites the guys over for dinner before the season starts. Mike never responds to any of Justin’s texts, but Justin sets a place for him at the table anyway, and he’s pleasantly surprised when Mike rings the doorbell, half an hour late.

He’s got his eyes glued to his phone and a scowl tugging down the corners of his lips when Justin opens the door. “New guy decided to join us?” Justin chirps.

“Uh huh.” Mike doesn’t look up as he pecks out a message on his phone. He makes Justin wait, door propped open, as he finishes typing, then hits send. “You know. Traffic.” He slips his phone into his pocket, then waves behind him. “Parking’s shit.”

“LA, right?” Justin smiles. Parking _is_ shit, but Mike lives close enough that he could have walked, if he really wanted to. “If there’s something important going down—” Justin gestures at Mike, towards his pocket.

“Nah.” Mike cuts him off, though his hand slips into his pocket and curls around his phone. “Just a—a thing.” He fidgets on the doorstep, then takes a hesitant step forward. “Just a thing with a friend. It’s nothing. Is everyone else here already?”

Justin wants to press, but he won’t. He inhales sharply, then nods. “Yeah, everyone’s just bullshitting in the kitchen. Come on, I’ll take you back.”

Mike follows Justin inside, down the hallway to the kitchen in the back of the house. In Mike’s pocket, his phone starts to ring. His shoulders tense up.

“You can take that, if you want. We’ve got a—”

“No,” Mike snaps. Short, clipped. Forceful. “It’s fine.” He pulls out the phone, declines the call, then turns the volume off. “I’m here now. I want to be here now.” 

Justin’s skeptical. Mike’s a mystery, vaguely hostile even in the face of his warm welcome from the rest of the team, and tonight’s no different. “Well, let’s go in, then.” Justin squeezes Mike’s shoulder as he moves past him to lead the way through the house. “Everyone’s waiting.”

*

Games go a little like this: they take the ice, and they don’t score, and they don’t score, and they don’t score some more. Sometimes, Mike nets one out of sheer frustration, teeth gritted and hands clenched tight on his stick as he roofs a puck, but most nights, it’s a challenge to even get an assist.

They win, sometimes, but more often than not, they walk away with a loss and no points for their troubles.

Mike sits in his stall and stews afterwards, stripped out of his jersey but still in the rest of his gear.

“It’s not all on you,” Justin says when he drops down next to him, long after most of their other teammates have hit the showers. “We’re getting there.”

Mike twists his hands together, stares down at his skates. “It’s not—” He leans down, picks absently at the tape strapped around his socks. “It’s not the game, not all of it.”

Justin bumps his shoulder against Mike’s. “You know, whatever it is,” he starts, careful, light. Mike’s been skittish since he got to California and Justin isn’t going to be the one to push him away. “If it’s off-ice shit—someone will listen.”

Mike snorts. “Right.” He slumps back, covers his face with his hands. “If I say it’s the game, will you drop it?”

He doesn’t want to be lied to, doesn’t want to let Mike off the hook, but Mike looks desperate. “Sure, Rick.” Justin squeezes Mike’s knee. “Sure, if that’s what you need to hear.”

“It’s the game.” Mike peeks out between his fingers, squinting at Justin. “We’re losing too many fucking games, and it sucks. Okay?”

Justin sighs, pats Mike’s thigh. “Okay, Rick.”

*

Mike’s not quite a grizzled vet, not yet, but he’s got plenty of stories, and that’s what keeps him in good with all the guys.

The younger guys—the ones who don’t know yet that they shouldn’t ask—want to know everything about Philadelphia. They want to know about Pronger and Briere and Timonen. They want to know about the finals, about being so close and so far to glory.

They want to know what it’s like to be traded, after all of that.

 _Don’t ask about Philadelphia_ should be one of the first rules a guy learns when he meets Mike Richards, and especially _don’t ask about 20-fucking-10_ , and Mike tries, Justin can tell, he’s trying so hard, but Justin sees the clench of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils when Lewie asks, “Do you miss it?”

It’s almost like their whole table at the bar goes still and silent. Mike fiddles with his phone, sets it face down on the table. He picks at the label of his beer bottle, flecks of paper peeling away as he focuses on that.

Justin’s about ready to intervene, ready to crack a joke to lighten the mood, when Mike speaks up.

“No,” he says, eyes still trained on the table. “There was a lot of bullshit there.” His thumbnail edges under another corner of the label until it peels loose, a large chunk coming off in one go. “There’s a—there’s people I miss.” He starts shredding the label, scraps floating down into a pile in front of him. “But other than that?” He looks up, catches a glimpse of the nervous rookies sitting across from him. “I’m glad I’m here. Let’s leave it at that, alright, boys?”

*

The first time Jeff Carter’s name comes up with the guys as a rumored trade, Mike drops his stick in the middle of taping the blade. It clatters to the floor and Mike startles with the noise of it, almost like he didn’t realize the stick wasn’t in his hands anymore until it was too late.

“What do you think, Rick?” Scuds asks. “You played with him.”

Mike reaches for his stick, bending double and hiding his face from the room. “He’d be fine.” There’s something off about his tone, Justin thinks, making Mike sound more uneasy than usual.

“Think he’d score us some fucking goals?”

Mike straightens up, focuses intently on examining the curve of his blade. “Maybe.” He tries to sort out the tangled roll of tape, stretching and twisting until he gives up and rips away the ruined part. He doesn’t say anything else. Of course he doesn’t.  

Scuds keeps pressing, though. “You guys were close, though, yeah? Wouldn’t it be nice, playing with a friend again like that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It is what it is, right?” Mike gets up, picks up his pile of sticks. “Anyway, I’m out. Gotta—” He waves vaguely at the door. “You know.”

He goes before anyone can question him, before anyone else can notice what Justin sees: the way Mike’s shoulders curl in, the way he grits his teeth, the longer people ask him about Jeff.

*

The room’s quiet after dropping what should have been an easy game against the Blue Jackets.  Not a single one of them can find the back of the net, not Justin, not even Kopi. It’s a stupid, waste of a game, one they should have had.

Mike’s on edge the whole game, and that doesn’t change once they get back into the locker room. He spends the whole time banging his gear around and glaring at everyone, and there’s almost an audible sigh of relief from the rookies when Mike storms off to the shower.

Things aren’t much better by the time everyone filters back into the change room. Mike was one of the first guys in, but by the time Justin gets there, Mike’s still only half dressed, suit pants undone, dress shirt still hanging up behind him.

"Rick, visitor," Marty calls out from the hallway, interrupting the tense hush that’s fallen over the room.

Mike slumps back in his stall and closes his eyes. Justin's not trying to stare, he's not trying to make this his business, but Mike looks pale and drawn and exhausted, like entertaining a visitor from the other team is the last thing he wants to do.

Justin sits down next to Mike and leans in close, knocking their shoulders together. "You don't have to, you know that."

Mike cracks one eye open. "No speech about respecting others, Stick? It's rude, isn't it, leaving someone hanging like that?"

"Hey." Justin lets his shoulders rise and fall. "I'm not asking what's going on. I'm just saying, someone can go out there and tell whoever it is that you're busy."

It's like the idea hadn't even occurred to Mike, that he didn't have to go. "I shouldn't."

"You don't owe anyone anything."

Mike laughs, and it's rough and bitter. "You wouldn't say that, if you knew the whole story."

Justin would know the whole story if he knew how to pry it out of Mike, but they're not there yet. Not now, and maybe they never will be.  But Mike—maybe they're not friends, but they're _team_ , and that means something to Justin.

"It doesn't matter." Justin stands up, wincing as his joints creak. "I'll go out, if you want."

Mike pinches the bridge of his nose. He inhales, exhales. Again. Again. Then leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Alright." He scrubs his hands against his face. "Tell him I'm—I'm not ready to talk about it. That's all. He'll know what I mean."

Clarification would be nice. An explanation would be nice. But Justin's not going to get them. He's not going to get any more out of Mike than this, right here.

"Okay, Rick. I'll tell him."

Justin doesn't need to ask who he's meeting outside the room. Maybe he _should_ , but he's guessing he already knows, anyway, and sure enough, there’s Jeff Carter lurking in the hallway, hands twisting awkwardly together in front of his chest.

"You're not Richie," he says, and he sounds—resigned, Justin thinks. Unsurprised.

"No shit," Justin says.

"He's not coming out, is he?" Carter unbuttons his suit jacket compulsively, hands restless.

Justin slips his hands into his pockets and rocks back onto his heels. "Nope." He shakes his head. "Said he's not ready to talk about it."

Carter flinches. It's a weird look on him; Justin doesn't know him well at all, but the wounded expression that flickers across his face doesn't match what Justin knows about the guy with the wicked wrister and the blockbuster trade.

He exhales, smooths his hands over his tie. "Can you tell him something for me?"

Justin worries his lower lip between his teeth. "I don't like playing messenger," he says. "I'll do it for Rick because he's team. But you should be better at handling your own business with him."

Carter barrels on, heedless of Justin's words. "Just—" He tips his head back, closes his eyes. "Just tell him he knows how to find me, if he wants to. That's all."

It's stupid. It's a waste of everyone's time, having this vague discussion with a guy he only barely knows. But Carter looks just as defeated and uneasy as Mike has ever since he landed in LA, so Justin's not really going to say no.

"Okay, Carter," he says. Justin takes a step back towards the room, distancing himself from the scene. "I'll tell him."

Carter visibly relaxes, releasing the breath he was holding.

"Have a good flight, kid." Justin wraps his hand around the doorknob. "I'll tell him."

*

After all the rumors, no one’s that surprised when Jack goes out and Carter comes over. Carter looks shell-shocked from the second he sets foot in the Kings’ locker room, but Justin doesn’t exactly care about Carter’s feelings yet.

Carter’s still a virtual stranger, and Justin doesn’t know how to read him. Can’t figure out what Carter’s story is, what he needs to hear in the room, whether he’s a prankster or the big, silent type, or what.

More importantly, Carter being in the room throws Mike off, just when Justin had finally gotten Mike figured out. Mike’s dead quiet as he watches Carter suit up, day in, day out. The two of them skate beautifully, their passes finding one another like they were made to play hockey together. But even though everyone congratulates Mike about having his best friend returned to him, there’s still something not right about Mike.

So Justin watches. When anyone is paying attention, Mike’s got a smile on his face a mile wide, like he wants nothing more than to be tied to Carter again, to have Carter taking up space in his life every minute of the day.

What’s more important to Justin is what Mike does when Carter’s not looking.

Mike stares after him as he walks away—to the showers, or to talk to the trainers, or to head to his car after another long, fruitless game. He watches Carter like a hawk, like if he takes his eyes off of him, he’ll disappear. Or turn up somewhere unexpected. Justin can’t decide. Justin never can, with Mike.

*

It’s hard to take, Mike’s constant hot and cold routine, and eventually Justin can’t deal with it anymore.

“He steal your lunch money or something, Rick?” Justin asks when Mike’s being particularly obvious over the way he watches Carter—eyes narrowed, brows knit together in concentration. He looks like his entire world’s boiled down to Jeff Carter, shooting pucks at the net from the top of the circles on the far side of the rink.

Mike tips his helmet back. “What? No. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look like you’re fixing to put your fist through a wall any time his back’s turned.” Justin pushes Mike’s helmet forward, settling it on his head back the way it should belong. “If you didn’t want him here, you should have said something when Lombardi asked you about him.”

Mike frowns and skates backwards, drifting towards the wall. “I can play just fine with him. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?” Justin follows Mike across the ice. “Because this?” He pushes lightly at Mike’s shoulder. “This isn’t a good look for you.”

Mike shakes off Justin’s hand. He looks away, down the ice at Carter, who’s still roofing pucks. “Not now,” he says. “Later.”

He reaches over the boards and unlatches the door, then steps off the ice before Justin can get him to agree to what _later_ even means.

*

Mike gets three points against San Jose and apparently, that’s what makes him want to talk.

“You know leaving Philly was shit,” Mike says out of the blue over post-game drinks. “Getting booted from there, I mean.”

“Right,” Justin says, cautious. Mike doesn’t talk about much, especially not about Philadelphia, so Justin’s not exactly going to stop him now. “Of course it was.”

“I was angry. Still am, maybe.” Mike’s folding up a cocktail napkin as he talks, working it into increasingly smaller squares. “Said some shit to Carts that—well.” He snorts and leans back in the booth, letting his words trail off.

“You don’t have to tell me.” Justin pushes his fingers through the moisture beading up on the side of his glass of beer.

Mike shakes his head. “No, I should tell _someone_.” He keeps looking up at the ceiling, like avoiding Justin’s eyes makes the discussion easier. “I didn’t mean what I said to him, I don’t think, but I said it anyway.”

“We all say stupid shit when we’re upset,” Justin says softly. “Even me. I could tell you stories, Rick. Stories.”

“It’s not like I opened my mouth and words fell out.” Mike frowns. “It wasn’t an accident. I didn’t speak wrong. You say something real fucked up to someone who’s supposed to be your best friend, and it sticks with you for a while.”

It’s too easy, it’s not what Mike wants to hear, but: “You could try apologizing?”

Mike’s frown deepens and he lifts one hand up, flips Justin off. “Ah, fuck off. ‘Try apologizing’? You ever tell someone you thought they only cared because you were an easy fuck for them, that’s it, and find a way to come back from that?” He admits it so flippantly, like it’s nothing, like he’s relaying one of his stories about fishing instead of—this. Whatever _this_ is. Mike wads up the napkin and tosses it on the table between them. “What do you even say? ‘Sorry I lied and said you only liked me because I was easy’?”

Justin, at least, is good at keeping his expression neutral. Mike is—he’s Mike. He’s going to do what he wants, no matter what anyone else thinks of him. Mike and Jeff—Justin can’t say he’s shocked. “That’s a start,” Justin reasons. “‘I’m sorry, let’s start over’ usually works pretty well. You could try it.”

“Oh, sure. That ever work out for you?”

“Well, I never said something like _that_ to… to someone I care about, but it’s the only place you can start, an apology.” Mike knows all this, Justin’s pretty sure. But it helps to hear it out loud, anyway. “He’ll never know, if you don’t say it.”

Mike reaches out, draws the napkin back to him. “And what if he doesn’t want to hear it?”

Justin thinks that’s probably a load of shit; Carter’s been trying to attach himself to Mike’s side ever since he landed in LA.  “Then you’ll know, and you can go on to whatever comes next.”

Mike slouches down in the booth and pulls his hat low, covering most of his face. “Ugh.” He sprawls out, kicking Justin under the table. “Stop being fucking right all the time.”

“The wisdom of old age, kid,” Justin says as he kicks back at Mike’s feet. “Just try it. ‘I’m sorry, let’s start over.’ Say it like you mean it.” Mike looks up, peeking out under his hat. “Whenever you’re ready, but you say it. Try to wait it out, it’s just gonna be miserable. Just handle your shit with him, that’s all.”

 

 

 

 

 

**ii.**

 

Before Jeff gets in his car, leaving Philadelphia behind—heading to the ocean instead of the midwest, like he should be—he makes one last call.

Mike picks up, doesn’t say anything. Just breathes into the phone.

“This doesn’t have to be it,” Jeff says. He’s not so far gone that he begs, but it’s close, the way he says it. “Lots of people manage to figure it out. Maybe we can make it work.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, then a laugh—bitter, sharp. “Figure what out? There’s nothing to figure out. We’re not anything.” There’s that laugh again, and Jeff grinds his teeth so hard his jaw aches. “So I went down real fast on my knees for you. So what? I’m not the first, sure as fuck won’t be the last—”

“What the fuck?” Jeff blurts. “That’s not why I—Why the fuck would you say that?”

“It’s just fucking, right? I was here, I was easy. Just somewhere to put your dick, right? It’s fine. Don’t make it something it’s not.”

Jeff stammers, searching for words. He thought it was more than that. He thought it could have been more than that.

Maybe not.

“Let it go, Carts,” Mike says, before the call cuts off.

The only reason Jeff doesn’t toss his phone under the wheels of his car as he drives away is sheer, stubborn practicality.

*

Columbus is—Columbus is a thing that happens to Jeff. The sheer act of being there, playing there, gnaws at him, sits wrong in his stomach. He's not supposed to be there. He signed a contract. He thought he had an understanding of where he was going to be for the next eleven years of his life.

But he was wrong, and now he's on a terrible team, and his body's even more fucked up than before, and Mike—he can't even let himself think about Mike, not now, not anymore. Mike made that perfectly clear before Jeff took off for the coast.

Jeff tries, sometimes—a text, a call. Maybe he and Mike won't be like they were before, but they've been friends since they were teenagers, and Jeff would at least like to have _that_ back. It doesn't help that Jeff's laid up half the time, stupid with exhaustion and painkillers that make his decision-making kind of suspect.

Mike almost never answers him when he reaches out, and when he does, he's cold, cagey. It's not _good_ , is what it is. He's not the same guy that Jeff found himself following around when they were kids, drawn in by his confidence and his inability to take no for an answer. The Mike that Jeff let into his bed was a piece of shit, sure, but he was uniquely _Jeff's_ , willing to let his guard down when the doors were closed and the lights were low.

This Mike—he of the one-word texts and the thinly veiled insults—doesn't feel right to Jeff anymore. He feels like a stranger.

Jeff wonders if maybe he was wrong. If maybe he never really knew Mike Richards in the first place.

So Jeff stops texting, stops e-mailing, stops sending pictures of things he sees in Columbus that remind him of Mike. No more stupid bumper stickers or misspelled signs or faded plastic lawn ornaments. Maybe it's better that way.

He tries to focus on his game instead, but even that’s tough, and by the time he's starting to put effort into gelling with his teammates, the trade talk starts.

Every day, there's a new rumor. He's heard his name connected to a dozen teams in the league by now, from Edmonton on down to Sunrise, and each proposed trade is more outlandish than the last. Sometimes, he falls asleep to thoughts of starting over, rebuilding his body and his game in a new city. Jeff dreams of a fresh start, one that he was denied in Columbus.

But Jeff never dreams of Los Angeles. Not once.

*

Jeff gets a phone call. He's expecting it, to be honest.

"It's the business, son," Howson says, and Jeff's expecting that, too.

"I'm sorry things didn't work out here. You're being traded to Los Angeles," Howson adds.

Jeff has to remind himself to breathe.

Los Angeles. _Fuck_.

*

When Justin says he wants to do lunch after one of Jeff’s first practices in LA, he says it in a tone that doesn't give Jeff much opportunity to turn him down, which is how they end up at a little cafe in El Segundo, jammed at a table in the back corner in a space too small for both of their frames.

Justin narrows his eyes at Jeff from across the table. "So. Carter.”

That’s all he says at first, fixing Jeff with a stare. Jeff’s played opposite a lot of really intense guys, but somehow Justin’s making him more nervous right now than he’s felt in years. Jeff doesn’t think he’s supposed to say anything, so he fiddles with the silverware instead, turning the fork over in his hands while he waits.

“You like it here so far?”

It’s a simple question, but to Jeff, it feels loaded. “It’s hot,” he says, picking the first thing that comes to mind. “The beach is right there, but there’s never anyone on it. It’s fucking hot out and there’s not a single person out there.”

Justin smiles. Quick, loose, easy. “It’s not beach weather to them yet. Wait a couple months, it’ll change. Settling in okay?”

Jeff looks down at his empty plate. “Yeah, I guess. Crashing with Richie until I have time to get a place of my own.”

“Huh.” That does seem to catch Justin by surprise, based on the way his eyebrows creep up, his head tilts to the side. “Must be nice, right? Being on the same team again?”

Nice. Right. _Nice_ , if Jeff likes feeling like his heart’s getting crushed every time Mike grins at him like it’s old times again, like they’re back in their shitty apartment by the park in Philly. Sure. It’s _nice_. “It’s good,” he says, trying to make himself sound more confident than he really is. “It’s been a while, hard to keep up when I was in Columbus, so there’s some catching up to do.”

Justin reaches out, nudges the back of Jeff’s hand. “He treating you good? You know better than us, but he can be—”

“Shitty,” Jeff interjects, maybe too fast. “He can be pretty shitty.”

Justin laughs. “Well, I was going to say _moody_.”

“Oh.” Jeff looks away, staring intently at the list of specials propped up on the table. “That, too.”

“Hey. You don’t have to pretend he’s not who he is,” Justin says. “He spent his first couple months here ignoring me. Always on his phone, texting, looking pissed off. Didn’t want anything to do with any of us. Spent every game banging his stick around, throwing his shit in his stall because he’s not scoring. So, yeah, he can be pretty shitty.”

The corners of Jeff’s mouth tug up into a smile. “Some of that was probably on me,” he admits.  “The—the texting and the—being shitty.”

“How’s that?” Justin asks. Everything about him is gentle, from his tone right on down to the soft sweatshirt he keeps tucking his hands into. Even though he’s a virtual stranger, Jeff almost wants to tell him the truth.

“There was some—stuff. After Philly traded us. Friends fight, you know how it is. I guess we fought a little dirtier.” Jeff runs his finger around the rim of his water glass. “It’s fine, though.”

He doesn’t think Justin believes him. To be fair, Jeff barely believes himself.

*

It’s not fine.

But Jeff pretends.

Jeff lives in Mike's house. Jeff rides with Mike to practice, to dinner, to the bar after a game. Jeff takes up space in Mike's world and tries not to let Mike take up any space in his heart.

It's not really working.

"We're cool, right?" Mike asks one night, out of the blue. He's got on a faded, wrinkled t-shirt, one with a hole at the collar, and his hair's a wreck, like he just woke up from a nap instead of playing video games for the past hour, and Jeff wants to say _no, we're not_.

Jeff sighs. "I told you," he says. "It's ancient history now." He digs his fingers into his thighs and looks over at Mike on the other side of the couch. "Besides, like you said. It was nothing, yeah?"

Mike inhales sharply. Color flares high on his cheeks as he gawks at Jeff. “That’s not fair,” Mike says, and that’s when Jeff feels something inside of him break, finally, after all this time.

Mike has no right, Jeff thinks, to get angry over this, over having his words turned back on him. Like Jeff could ever forget, anyway. Like Jeff doesn’t hear it in his head any time he dares to look at Mike with just a bit too much longing in his heart.

"What did you say before? It was just fucking, wasn't it?" Jeff gets up, angry now. He needs to go, before he says something he can’t take back. "It's in the past. Let it go."

Mike stands up, too, and takes a tentative step towards Jeff. "Hey, come on. Maybe I shouldn't have—"

Jeff shakes his head. "But you did." He takes a deep breath, holds up his hands. “Look, I get it. We’re here to play hockey. We’re here to win." He crosses his arms over his chest, hugs his body tight. "So let's just do that. Let's just play good hockey and let the rest be."

It's not what Jeff thought he wanted until he said it, but he knows that he can't sit back and wait for Mike to decide how he wants to act. He can't wait around for Mike to apologize for what he said that summer.

Jeff puts pucks in a net for a living, and he's going to start focusing on that now.

*

Mike and Jeff play beautiful hockey together.

They always have. Jeff hopes they always will.

But now, it's Mike staring back at Jeff just a little too long, and he's not subtle about it at all.

He never says anything, though, never once tries to talk to Jeff about the things they’d said to each other.

It’s okay. Jeff knows full well that Mike’s probably never apologized for a single thing in his life.

Doesn’t matter, though. Jeff's heart still hurts.

But he can’t lie—they do play fucking beautiful hockey together.

*

Mike hands Jeff the Cup, and it's like the whole world shorts out. He can't hear anything over the roar of the crowd, can't see anything other than a sea of black and silver stretching out in front of him. 

The Cup feels weightless as he hoists it overhead and takes it for a lap. He’s not sure if actual words are coming out of his mouth, or just formless screams, but he knows that, for one moment, he feels like everything in his life is perfect.

The night passes in a blur of beer and champagne and cigars. Mike's with him almost the whole time, and Jeff’s too thrilled with the fact that he just added _Stanley Cup champion_ to his list of achievements to question Mike’s sudden closeness. Mike stays tucked up tight against Jeff’s side while they make their rounds, first at Staples for the endless parade of friends, family, and international media, and then later, as they go from club to club to celebrate a little harder.

They're holding court in the the latest club of the night, Jeff sitting on the edge of the table, Mike standing between his spread legs. Jeff can't concentrate on what Mike's saying, the music's too loud for that, but he's got one hand on Mike's side and he can feel the rise and fall of his ribs, can make out the sound of Mike's voice even if he can't catch all of the words.

Jeff can't stop thinking about how natural it feels, Mike warm and solid next to him, late into the night. It feels like old times—like they're back in Philly, going from shitty bar to shitty bar, sometimes with their teammates, but usually alone. By the time the sun would start to peek out over the horizon, Mike would set one hand on Jeff's jaw, draw his attention away from whatever else was happening, and—

"Let's get out of here."

That's what Mike would say in Philly.

That's what Mike says now.

"What?" Jeff's hand slides down, tightens on Mike's hip. "Richie. Come on."

Mike turns around and grins at Jeff. His hair's plastered to his forehead with sweat, his beard is horrific, and he's only got eyes for Jeff.

"We never got to celebrate, not like this." Mike sets down his beer and presses his hand against Jeff's stomach. His fingers are wet with moisture from the bottle and Jeff's abs jump under the chill of Mike's fingertips. "Come on. Let’s celebrate now."

Jeff glances around the club. The kids have dispersed, out to the dance floor or over to the bar to try their luck at getting drinks. The older guys have largely left, going home to celebrate with their wives and their kids and to fall into a well-earned sleep.

No one's paying attention to Jeff and Mike.

Jeff should go home—to _his_ home, alone.

Mike works one hand into Jeff’s back pocket, stealing his phone. “I’ll call us a cab,” he says as he swipes in the code to unlock Jeff’s phone.

“You could at least pretend not to know that,” Jeff protests weakly. He reaches out, grabs for the phone, but Mike dances back a few steps, just out of Jeff’s reach.

“Not my fault you haven’t changed it since summer.” He sinks his teeth into his lower lip in concentration as he scrolls through Jeff’s contacts, looking for the car hire they always use. “Come on, come home with me, don’t argue.”

Jeff should be arguing. He should take his phone back, and take the car Mike’s calling, and go _home_.

Maybe it’s just the sheen of sweat on his skin, making his thin t-shirt stick to him. Maybe it’s the way his smile crinkles the corners of his eyes when he looks up at Jeff.  But Mike looks so happy he’s practically glowing.

And how can Jeff say no to that?

*

Mike’s barely even got the door locked behind them before his mouth is on Jeff, lips dragging a trail down Jeff’s neck. He pulls at Jeff’s clothes, trying to get him out of his sweat-soaked shirt, his well-wrinkled dress pants.

Jeff wants Mike to slow down so they can savor the moment. Jeff knows he might not ever have this again, that this is just a Cup-drunk lapse of judgment for Mike.

It isn’t that for Jeff, not really, but he’s not going to bring it up.

“Mike,” Jeff whispers, getting his hand in Mike’s curls. “Mike, please.”

“Come on, babe,” Mike murmurs. His words buzz against Jeff’s skin. Jeff can feel everything—Mike’s teeth scraping across his collarbone, his hands tight on Jeff’s arms, the hot press of Mike’s body blanketing his. “I know what you like, remember?” Mike lowers one hand to Jeff’s belt and starts working it open. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“You were always so good,” Jeff says, and he gets a hand on Mike’s shoulder, nudging him down.

Mike drops to his knees, blinks up at Jeff. He smiles, loose and easy. “Yeah?”

Jeff runs his thumb over Mike’s lower lip. “Yeah.”

Mike said that Jeff only wanted him because he was easy, in that call after the trade. Mike somehow never figured out exactly how quick Jeff was to say yes to Mike, any time, no matter what.

It’s probably better that way.

 

 

 

 

**iii.**

 

Mike has his own house. Mike has a dog and a car and a cleaning service and meal delivery service and a laundry service.

Mike has walls covered with jerseys and medals. Mike has photos from his career spread all throughout his house.

Mike doesn’t care about any of that.

Mike has Jeff. That’s what Mike cares about most.  

*

Well. Mike doesn’t _really_ have Jeff.

He and Jeff fuck. That’s what it is, there’s no sense in lying about it.

Sometimes, when Jeff’s pressed up close against Mike, holding him open, panting harshly in his ear, Jeff will say “you feel so good, Mike,” or “please, hang on, I’m so close,” or “I don’t want anyone else to have you,” and Mike feels his heart swell, feels a weird quiver in his stomach that doesn’t have anything to do with what his dick wants.

There’s always words just on the tip of Mike’s tongue that he wants to say, but he won’t let them out. Instead, he whispers, voice wrecked, “harder” or “tighter” or “make me feel it”.

Besides. They’re just fucking. That’s what he keeps telling himself. That’s all it is. It’s just like before, only now they’re older. Not necessarily wiser, but definitely _older_.

*

Mike told himself that it was just because of the Cup win, that he just felt so _alive_ that of course the only logical thing to do was to take Jeff home and crawl into bed with him.

But when the next season rolls around, Jeff beams at Mike whenever they cross paths and Mike finds himself counting down the hours until they can leave the rink.

Every time, Mike tells himself this is it, he's not going to let himself get dragged back in, but every time he looks at Jeff, he sees the guy who stuck by his side since they were teenagers, and he can't bring himself to put a stop to it.

*

It's not just the Cup.

It's not just wins or losses or tough nights alone on the road. It's not just when one of them is nursing an injury.

It's all the time, now.

Mike wakes up next to Jeff more often than not. It’s not what he expected. It’s not what he planned. It just is.

*

“So everything’s cool with you two now?” Justin asks. He follows Mike’s gaze across the room and lands on Jeff, gesturing at Tyler and Tanner with a whiteboard and a marker.

Mike shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“You said you’re sorry?”

Mike had hoped that Justin would have forgotten that conversation. It was ancient history, just like the fight that Mike and Jeff had.

“Eh.” Mike busies himself with hanging his shoulder pads back up, so he doesn’t have to look at Jeff or Justin. “It’s fine. Like I said.”

“Michael,” Justin sighs. He pushes his shoulder, punches him in the arm. “Seriously?”

“It’s nothing,” Mike says, but he doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears. He knows for a fact that Justin isn’t going to buy it. “It’s nothing. It’s just fun. It’s fine.”

Justin’s fingers curl around Mike’s arm. “Does he know that?”

Mike doesn’t answer. There’s no answer that doesn’t make him look like an asshole, anyway.

*

Manchester was bad enough, stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere with an ache in his back and a migraine that won’t go away, babysitting a bunch of children and Paul fucking Bissonnette.

But this is worse than Manchester.

If you asked Mike what his dream was, outside of a third Cup, he’d say it was this: endless days up on the lake in Kenora with nothing but his dog and his boat and some fish to keep him company.

Mike’s got a lot of time to spend with that dog and that boat and those fish now. Mike thinks he needs to reconsider his dream. 

*

Mike sends emails to his lawyer. He eats pizza for dinner whenever he wants, because he _can._ He probably drinks too much, but at least he can’t mix pills with the booze, so there’s always that, at least.

Mike joins his brother’s beer league, scores seven goals in a game, pisses everyone else off.

(Mike feels fast there. Mike feels like he’s still got skill there. He fucking hates everything about this, but outclassing these scrubs when he’s playing D on his weak side isn’t exactly the worst feeling in the world, when he thinks about it.)

Jeff calls, then texts, then emails, then starts the cycle all over again when Mike doesn’t respond in the first place.

“How’s your head?” Jeff will ask. “Do you need anything for the cabin? What’s the lake like? Catching anything good? I bet the sunsets are beautiful.”

Jeff cares _so_ fucking much. Mike doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say, so Mike doesn’t say anything.

He lets the silence stretch between them. A week, two weeks, a month. Jeff’s texts are less and less frequent, until the very last one.

 _i hope ur ok_ , Jeff texts. _i hope ur takng care of urself. i thought things were better w us._  

Mike isn’t sure anymore what he thought they were doing. If things were better, Mike thinks, he’s certainly fucked them up now.

He’s fucked everything else up, anyway. Go big or go home, he guesses.

Mike turns off his phone.

*

By the time Mike finds the courage to connect with the outside world again, Jeff’s stopped texting.

It’s probably for the best. Mike doesn’t have anything to say that can make what he’s done _right_.

There’s always scattered messages from other guys who he’s played with over the years, guys who summer in Winnipeg.

And there’s Justin. Justin sends him the crossword every week, with hints on the ones he knows Mike will get wrong. He sends him pictures of his kids, pictures of the sun rising over Lake Ontario, links to specs on a boat he wants to buy.

Justin offers to come visit, when he’s swinging through the area. Mike says no, because that’s a fucking lie; no one just _swings through_ Kenora, but it’s a nice offer. It’s more than pretty much anyone else has offered him.

(Jeff offered to come, back at the beginning of the summer. Mike never answered him.)

Justin doesn’t come with the same baggage as Jeff does. Justin is safe to write back to. Mike’s not going to accidentally say something stupid to Justin, like _please come here, I miss you, I think I need you_. 

*

Before he signs with Washington, he calls two people.

To Justin, he talks about his fears in hushed tones. “What if I’m not good enough anymore?” he asks, when he’s feeling like it’s okay to be a little vulnerable. “What if I don’t help the team?”

Justin doesn’t have answers, but he doesn’t make Mike feel like shit, at least, which is a start.

He calls Jeff. He times it so that he calls whenever Jeff can’t possibly pick up. He picks up the phone when the sun’s barely peeking above the lake, and Jeff’s sure to be sleeping, out on the west coast.

“I’m coming back,” Mike says to Jeff’s voicemail. He hates the sound of his own voice, creaky and worn in the quiet of his house on the lake. He tries to rush through the message so he doesn’t have to listen to the way he sounds when he thinks about Jeff. “Just thought you should know.”

He’s quiet, breathes into the dead air for a while. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “For everything. For running away. For being an asshole. For ever saying I didn’t care.” Mike digs his fingers into his thigh, presses on. “I always cared. Even when we were kids, I cared.”

He hangs up after that. Doesn’t say goodbye, doesn’t ask for Jeff to call. Just disconnects, then goes to pack his suitcase to fly to Washington.

*

Mike winds his way through the back halls at Staples. He knows his way around, how to get where he needs to be without having to see anyone he doesn’t want to see. Mike doesn't need a guide like he has at other arenas just to go say hi to an old friend or two.

Staples—no matter how it ended, no matter how much bad blood there was—Staples still feels like home.

He hesitates outside the door to the Kings' room. He doesn't belong here. He belongs back with his own team, weary and bruised and ready to pack onto a plane and head north.

This isn't home anymore.

He can’t go unseen forever, especially lingering outside the locker room, conspicuous in his bright red hoodie, and eventually, Mike gets caught up in an endless series of hugs and handshakes. Everyone’s _nice_ to him, which feels fucked up to Mike, with the way everything ended here in LA. But there he is, Kopi’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, talking about when the prime cherry blossom viewing times are in DC, like Mike knows two fucking things about cherry blossoms.

“Hey,” Mike interrupts. “Hey, while we’re here. Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Kopi says. “What’s up?”

Mike scrubs a hand over his face, presses his fingers against his temple. “Can you tell Carts I’m out here?” Kopi fixes him with a stare, eyebrows raised, and Mike keeps talking. “I get it, if he doesn’t want to come out, but I thought—”

“No, no,” Kopi says, shaking his head. “I’ll get him.”

He disappears back into the room, leaving Mike to wait alone. He twists his hands, worries at bruises across his knuckles. He waits for what seems like forever, almost long enough that he’s ready to go back to his own team.

Mike knows he’d deserve it, being left hanging here. He did it to Jeff once, years ago. Mike doesn’t exactly think he’s worthy of much consideration, after everything he’s said and done.

The door swings back open and Mike’s pretty sure it’s going to be Kopi, making excuses for Jeff. “It’s okay,” Mike starts, then stops, because there’s Jeff in front of him, wide eyed and calm, the barest hint of a smile hiding under his beard.

“Oh,” Mike says.

“Hi.” Jeff shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. His fingers curl in the hem of his shirt, tight enough that Mike can see the way the fabric twists and stretches.

Mike glances down the hallway then reaches out, takes Jeff’s wrist in his hand. His grip is soft, fingers just barely brushing his skin. Jeff was out for a while, Mike remembers, his hands or his wrists fucked for a bit. Mike isn’t going to make it worse.

“Can we talk?” Mike asks.

Jeff doesn’t have to say yes. Jeff shouldn’t say yes. He should tell Mike to get fucked for the past fifteen years of shit he’s caused.

He nods, though. “Yes,” Jeff whispers, and it takes a minute for Mike to process that.

Mike tugs, light, on Jeff’s wrist, leading him down the hallway. Mike knows all of the hiding places in Staples, mostly because he found them with Jeff, put them to good use.

“I’m glad you’re playing again,” Jeff says whenever they’re half-hidden behind a cart full of gear bags. “You look good. Beat me clean on a couple—” 

“Jeff,” Mike interrupts. He doesn’t want to hear about the faceoffs. He doesn’t want to hear about the game. He has something else to say. “Jeff. Listen.” Mike exhales, shaky. If he waits, he’s going to chicken out. He’s going to fuck this up. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, for all the shit I put you through.” Mike lets go of Jeff’s wrist, slides his hand down to tangle their fingers together. “I’m sorry. Can we start over?”

Jeff looks down at their hands for a long time. He doesn’t say anything, just runs his thumb over Mike’s knuckles. Soft, almost tender, like he knows how much Mike’s whole body aches right now. Mike’s heart is in his throat. Jeff should say no, he thinks. Jeff should walk away.

“Yes,” Jeff says instead, and he smiles, the same shy, toothless grin that Mike can’t get out of his head half of the time. “Yeah, we can.”

 

 

 

**iv.**

 

Los Angeles is home, Justin knows. He would have stayed, if it was ever an option.

It wasn’t, though, and even though Justin loves the Caps, he misses these boys desperately.

He’s got one arm around Marty’s shoulders, just listening, soaking it in. If he sees these guys again this season, it’s going to be in June, and they’re not going to be allowed to be friends then. For now, though, he’ll just listen to stories about Marty’s attempts to try every sushi place in the South Bay.

Justin’s attention wanders as he gazes off down the hallway. He’ll say he’s keeping an eye out for anyone else he wants to say hello to, but really, he’s watching Jeff and Mike as they retreat from the group.

Those two were never good at hiding, not from the rest of the team, and certainly not from one another.

Marty’s going on about the scallops he tried at a little place over in Venice, but Justin’s watching Mike and the way he’s smiling up at Jeff like there’s no one else in the world. And maybe there isn’t, after all they’ve been through. Maybe there shouldn’t ever be anyone other than Jeff.

Jeff smiles, says something back, and even from a distance, Justin can see Mike relax, like all the tension goes out of him with the nod of Jeff’s head.

“I’m telling you,” Marty’s saying. “I know we’re, like, not supposed to do bread. But the fucking bread there, Stick, you wouldn’t believe it.”

Justin leans his head against Marty’s. “I’ll come over summer,” he says. “Maybe they’ll let me do bread over the summer.”

Marty’s hand is warm on Justin’s back, right between his shoulders. “I’m holding you to that,” he says, then goes back to rattling off a list of restaurants that moved into Manhattan Beach since Justin left.

Down the hall, Mike leans towards Jeff. Just a fraction, just barely enough to notice. His hand’s pressed flat against Jeff’s chest, fingers spread wide.

Justin’s not positive, but it looks like his hand’s right over Jeff’s heart.

Right where it should be. 

 


End file.
